Backstage
by 1BadJoke
Summary: AU: The Macello del Circo is in town; One designer on the lips of Gotham's elite, and one preppy model gives for an interesting show in itself backstage. Bruce/Joker and slight Joker/Crane


Disclaimer: These gorgeous characters don't belong to me, but if they did, why would I be sitting on the computer? Suing me would be a bad joke. Ha, ha

Prompt: Bad Luck (previously posted at the LiveJournal community, Freak Like Me, under my account 1bad_joke

Warnings: Language, sexual innuendos, brief violence, and EXtremely long **Unbeta-ed**

Pairings: Bruce Wayne/Joker, slight Joker/Scarecrow

Author's Note: This is not at all meant to be serious. I got this idea in my head late at night, it made me giggle, so I had to write it. Please, be kind. Have mercy on my soul. **Feedback is always appreciated.**

Flashing bulbs popped and stung retinas, paparazzi eager to capture and record Gotham's finest stepping out of stretch limosines and posing for photos as the vehicle's respective driver crouched out of the shot. Yells from the media and nosy fans fought for the attention of tuxedo-ed studs and sparkling, peacock vixens. Glitzy actors, grungy musicians, and well to do fashion critics strolled down the amethyst carpet; its lush expanse under polished shoes and open-toed stiletto heels clashed beautifully with the cracked and soiled sidewalk the _riff raff _crowded upon.

The night air buzzed with excitement; the rumors building around the fashion world's new dark horse working all those concerned's imagination into a frenzy and torturing the curious with the designer's lack of press coverage. To put it blunt, Willy Wonka was finally opening up his chocolate factory and the world rattled the fortress' iron gates.

Those lucky enough to have received the low-key invitation in the mail -a standard playing card with a jester printed on its face- flashed the card proudly to the doorman and disappeared inside the refurbished _Jack-in-the-Box _toy factory. The large, brick edifice -that had been abandoned for years but resurrected for this very occasion (by the host's insistence)- loomed tall over the commotion outside, but within nothing could have compared to the splendid images painted in the minds of those denied entry; some of which even had the proper credentials:The city's new D.A., Harvey Dent, was flabbergasted when he had received the smiling card; the red ink of its sender sloppily requesting for his attendance. Normally he wouldn't have considered going -preferring to work late at the office and uncover more dirty deeds of the mob- but when his beloved fiance, Rachel, squealed in delight at the news he had no choice but to go. With her on his arm, of course.

So when he handed over the jester face -a smug grin on his lips and a coy blush burrowed within her camera-flashed cheeks- the gigantic doorman in a dirty nylon mask, with blue pit eyes and torn bubble gum grimace, scanned down the names of his clipboard and eventually shook his head.

Worry deepened the lines around the young DA's eyes. "Is there a problem?"

"Harvey, what's going on?" His date's large, blue stare danced between the two men. A comforting squeeze on her arm did little to pacify her.

"It says here that your invitation is null and void."

"But- but why?"

"What-did you- **do**, Harvey?" Rachel ground out through clenched teeth.

"Surely there must be some sort of explanation?"

Beady eyes narrowed at the small note written on the side margin next to the DA's name. "It says that... Well, the boss said and I quote..." The scribbled words blended horribly. "'Harvey, Harvey, Harvey, **Dent**--- did you seriously think I'd invite you to my show? Ha! Ha! He-ho-ha! And I thought my jokes were bad...' I'm sorry, sir, that's all that's written." The doorman concluded with a shrug and waved on for those next in line.

The two patrons of prosecution stood still and gaped at the bearer of bad news, appearing much to the likeness of goldfish at feeding time; swimming aimlessly with loose-hinged jaws and hoping for a chance flake of food. _The Gotham Rag _attained a great shot of the couple, a humiliating blurb in the social section.

After a brief stop at coat check, guests gaped in awe upon arriving to the main room where the show would take place. The mercury hue of cosmic black lights covered chipped brick -black stains of carmine splatters in normal illumination peppered around sparing neon slashes of, "HA!," "?," smiley faces, and crude murals of explosions and sick people. Colorful tapestries hung in rags from the high ceiling: Aerial acrobats swung and contorted around the strips of matching shade, manipulating their dark bodies, putting the people below on edge, and dancing in the air like goblins of the night. Nothing special was done to the concrete floor; they didn't even appear to have been swept, judging by the swirls of dirt and grime sticking to the bottoms of over-priced soles. So instead of wandering and socializing, the rich and famous quickly took their seats around the flood light washed catwalk and ordered drinks from the aimless waiters clad in pink and black pinstripe fitted suits; the fact they were little people with trays was shamefully giggle-worthy. Fire breathers were situated at each end of the stage perpendicular to the walk. Amber flames splashed from their burnt lips, the glowing cloud highlighting their torched skin and infected, seeping wounds and singing the brim of their ratty, velvet top-hats. They guarded the eggshell circus tent entrance pinned against the back wall in a grandiose silhouette. Sipping their champagne and J&Bs in accordance to the thrumming goth metal, they waited, casting expectant glances at the empty scene.

Backstage all hell was breaking lose. Clouds of rouge burst in the air, tiny particles swarming like hornets from the crash against pale complexions. Rainbow tones streaked across eyelids and rubbed along pouted lips. Workers scampered back and forth from clothing rows to malnourished bodies: Tugging bony limbs through holes, zipping and buttoning shrunken frocks, and enduring the complaints of spoiled models. Moves inhibited by lack of space and catty shoves set the mood for pre-show resentment and mounting panic. Nothing seemed ready.

Unlike traditional designers rushing from here to there to ensure their moment in the sun would go off without a hitch, he watched off to the side with darting, fascinated eyes. _"Chaos, such utterly beautiful chaos._" His tongue roamed over curled cherry lips. _"And not a bomb in sight. How... inspired."_

"Mr. J! Mr. J!" His right-hand goon, Thomas, scrambled over to him with a light sheen of paranoia layering his homely face. "We need your help. One of the outfits ripped!" This news barely caused a nervous twitter in his serenity. Well, he did have enough of playing the spectator to his own limited mayhem; time to immerse himself in the fun.

Pushing off from the wall, he nodded for his assistant to lead the way. He rolled up his hexagon-patterned blue sleeves as he went, gliding through the swarm. Frightened stares greeting his passing and scurrying out of his path. He enjoyed how every passive pair of eyes widened at the sight of him: His ghostly pallor and raccooned muddy stare being reflected in distorted angles. _"Yes, indeed, folks. I am quite the handsome devil." _He snickered and came to a halt in front of a stressing Schiff and bored model. She stood, arms crossed, and her patchwork top busted open at the chest. Her Raggedy Anne wig itched, concerning her more than a ruined middle-bust seam. The scarred man could have killed her, if not for her apparel being was one of his favorites and blood wouldn't dry well on that material.

Tonguing the folded ridge in his mouth, he yanked his grape leather gloves lower on his wrists and muttered, "Stapler."The Office Max buy was thrust into his grasp. Taking the torn cloth and pinching it together, he **click-click-clicked **the top back to its previous glory. "Now Puppet, I thought I _**told**_ you that there'll be no, uh, chest-stuffing in my fall line. Didn't I say that? ---- Hey, hey, look at meee..." He forced their eyes to meet by gripping her chin and digging his ragged nails into her skin, smudging the china doll blush. "Answer!" he snarled, stained teeth threatening to rip out a chunk.

"Ye- yes, you- you did. I'm sorry."

Cold, criticizing pupils scanned over the fear showing through cracks of paint, down to the bobbing adam's apple and bulge in the heart of olive corduroy hot pants. He giggled to himself at the vast abundance of silliness all these suckers just gobbled up. "Ooooh, perk up there." He playfully smacked the ruined cheeks. "No need for your appy-polly-loggies[1]. Just make sure it doesn't - happen - _ah_gain."

A strong push sent the model tumbling into the empty clothes rack -plastic hangers flying- and a yelp from wine-red bee sting lips went unnoticed in the pandemonium. The chilling laugh rang out from the designer. "Revisit make up, attache the strings -you're not my marionette for ab-so-lu-utely nothin' and for fuckssake, tuck your damn dick between your legs!"

Female models are _such_ a hasstle.

Leaving the Lamborghini to cool in back, he dashed up the rickety iron steps and pawed at the back door. He couldn't get his hand on the knob to save his life. Over exertion pounding inside his skull, he took a break from his attempts to steady himself and shake away the effects of four Rum & Cokes. Ooo, not a smart idea before a show where all he had to do was show up on time and walk in a straight line. Let's pray no one notices.

Using both hands this time, he toppled through and crashed against a clown-masked security guard. All it took was one look at his sharp features and seemingly perfect face to be ushered further inside. The commotion snatched him up like a fly at the end of a frog's tongue.

"You're late," one of the assistants hissed in his ear and directed him to an empty chair for hair and make up.

"I'm sor-"

"Just shut up and take off your clothes --Someone-- get your ass over here and take care of Bruce!" The small woman stormed off and left him to his stripping.

A touch bemused, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and kicked off his shoes, running a strong hand through his chocolate mane. The salon chair groaned under his weight; the mirror televising the morbid concoctions the designer dreamnt up. Sparkled freaks, shredded Charlie Chaplin tramps[2], special effect make up of sword-swallowers gone wrong, and other circus abominations. His eyes fell closed to calm the booze swimming in his system and tempting him to crack up laughing at the walking jokes. He knew this particular job would be different from the rest but his bright solution to drink till that nervous churning in his gut settled hadn't prepared him in the best of ways. He hadn't gone on the look-see to meet the designer or get a taste for the fashion, so why he was hired eluded him, but he was desperate for a change.

No longer shall Bruce Wayne pose for black and white Calvin Klein ads or gallivant around fountains in Italy wearing Giorgio Armani. Abercrombie and Fitch had yet to sink its cologne-dripping claws in him, and he was beyond grateful for that. Participating in _Macello del Circo_ [3] would integrate more depth into his shallow profession, he hoped. It depressed him too much to think the only thing he was good at was being ridiculously good looking. [4]

Sure hands combed through his air, more calming than startling. He settled back in his seat and allowed whatever was to come. The fact that his fellow models in costume frightened him -the inebriation giggling at his un found apprehension- stirred a peculiar excitement. By constantly surrounding himself with gorgeous and exotic women, he stayed weary of his current company: Effeminate testosterone in drag, a sausage fest. Maybe this wasn't exactly the "depth" he was hoping for...

"There's a bit of a last minute wardrobe conflict, so will you stand please?" The scalp massage withdrew -the stylist scurrying away- and regretfully forced him back to reality. Kaleidoscope blurs carried on their business behind him as he rose and turned to be inspected. A shorter man with a more fragile build waited beside him; a coy grin tugged at this plump lips and ice blue eyes stunned. They quietly regarded each other -subtly sizing up the competition (one in his skivvies and the other still in street clothes)- before being approached by a twitchy, little twerp with raven hair. Each hand held up a hanger of two vastly different frocks: One, a brown, moth-eaten suit, starch wrinkled white dress shirt, maroon sweater vest, and hanging carelessly in place of a tie, a gnarled noose; and the other, a black leather ensemble -made to cling to the body- with kevlar chest and ab plates, dark material pinned against it which would hide the lack of modesty in the back. Bruce sneered at the S & M uniform. "The boss'll be by in a moment to decide."

"Excuse me, what is there to _decide_? There's no chance I'm wearing anything like that."

The assistant remained silent but a snide tone flitted against his ear drum. "I don't believe it's up to **you** to decide."

Re-examining the shy androgyny beside him. What he assumed as a blushing grin was a smirk souring such a pretty face. Intelligence radiated off of him. Bruce hated this guy already. "That may be, but there's no way. You wear that--- _thing_," he spat and crossed his arms. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror he was sickened by his spoiled brat antics, but damn it there was no way in hell he was putting that on.

"Oh now I see, you're one of _those_..."

"One of _what_?"

A glint of malice shown in that calm expression; a clean-shaven chin tilting downward to highlight blazing blue in dark sleep circles. An eyebrow raised in question. "You really want to know?"

Perfect pearly whites rows gritted painfully against each other. "Yes."

"If you insist..." Skeletal digits pinched and massaged the bridge of his nose; closer inspection revealed two small, pink dents indicating the absence of needed spectacles. The smooth, arrogant delivery ensued: "Judging by your dilated pupils and ruddy cheeks, you've been drinking-"

Embarrassment bloomed across Bruce's hardened expression. Was it really that obvious?

"I bet it was something mixed. You find beer bloating. You're too insecure with your masculinity to order something sweet -your eyes glued to the ground says as much- but you can't stand hard liquor straight, so you're reluctant to something sugary -Diet, of course- to cover up the taste of high proof and still come off as a _no doubt_ hetero. Tell me, did those three or four Jack & Cokes settle your nerves?" He paused, genuinely interested to hear if he was right on the money. The chewed lip of the taller brunette answered and baited him further. "You are terrified to be here, but curiosity has gotten the better of you, because a change from Play Girl spreads is the closest thing you have to diversity in your sorry search for self-discovery. You're afraid that this -prancing around like a piece of meat- is all you'll ever be good for. That's why you're taking this way too seriously. Word of advice, get over yourself-"

A choked yelp torn from his throat slashed the end of his venom. A shaking grip grabbed him by the neck and threatened with a windpipe-crushing squeeze."Shut the fuck up!" Bruce hissed through bared teeth. He had really had enough. His handsome face drawn in a fierce snarl, he yanked the blue-eyed skeleton closer. "You're doing no different than me."

Wide-eyed and gurgling for breath, he hung limp with toes grazing tile floor. "I'm sober."The cocky grin on top of a half-naked stranger set something off inside Bruce where needles pricked the back of his vision, and he used that on-display muscle to slam the other's head into the mirror.

No one paused at the sickening crack that resounded in the two model's ears. Red clung to splintered edges. A spiderweb halo crunching underneath the press of a stinging scalp. Heavy pants blowing past a resilient smirk. "... my mistake, **Rum** & Coke."

A frustrated grunt. He pulled back to slam again-

"Tsk, tsk, Brucey... seven **years **of bad luck, is that how you want to start off my, heh, special night?" A tongue traced the shell of his ear.

At the unforeseen contact, Bruce dropped the man and jerked away from that sensual touch and lilting tenor. He collapsed against the salon chair in haphazard support for the alcohol still sloshing around in his system. When the dizziness receded he looked to the source and a new brand of incoherence befell him. Bruce, such a well-kept boy, was accustomed to the ordinary in life, the predictability of it all, the normal consistencies. So it would make sense that those scars hold his hazy attention.

Thick, messy streaks of vermilion hooked atop white-caked cheeks. An ugly, knotted grin under the premise of a clown. Glimpses of pink swiping along the marred bottom lip. The sight of that guilty muscle reignited the burning trail of saliva drying against Bruce's ear, and the uneasy squirming in his gut. He didn't know such mutilation existed. Underneath the light sheen of repulsion, a curious excitement swelled the lump in his throat. Not a blemish, especially something as standout as a scar, could be seen across Bruce's taut bronze skin. But this gangly man with bottle green locks called attention to them, tempting the flawless model. He wanted to touch them.

Those scars puffed and stretched around the words. "Wanna know how I got 'em?"

Bruce found himself nodding before he discerned what was said. Seeing one side tug and wrinkle to reveal stained teeth satisfied him enough.

"An angry drunk," the slur simpered from the floor. The previously forgotten model sat bewildered on the ground. Tears laced his big, blue eyes but he appeared amused at the smears of crimson dripping from his fingers each time they came away from his chestnut hair, matted in blood. "Violent acts -with men especially- spurn from fear... like beating the gay out for example--- isn't that right, Rum & Coke?"

The urge to smack off that smirk revisited him and -having the steady support of the chair- he could easily kick that cherubic face in.

"Enough." The clown sensed the impending next installment of blood and he wouldn't have any more of it unless it was by his hand, lapped up by his tongue, and it all trickling from those pursed, thin lips of Brucye's. "Schiff, get our bloody angel into that suit, leave the hair be, and usher him to whatserface to apply the cuts and bits of straw-"

"Straw, sir?" His assistant squeaked, draping the black outfit on the back of a neighboring chair. "Like hay?" Confusion was a risky response when working for the boss.

"Yes, _straw like hay_," he retorted with a roll of his dark eyes. When they landed on the model rambling to himself, he crouched down before him and ran a leather thumb over those full lips, sufficiently shushing them. He could envision that mouth wrapping around something else besides smart words. Those baby blues staring up at him through sweaty bangs and a bobbing head... _Focus_. "... now, uh, be on your way, my little scarecrow."

Bruce found the exchange mesmerizing and couldn't deny the lick of jealousy he felt when the attention of the other man went to another. He blamed those feelings on the rum. When the tattered suit was carried away and the smart elic skeleton stumbled after it, a surge of protest rushed upon him. "Fuck no, I'm not-"

A purple finger pinned his lips to his gums, stopping his bash of the hard rubber and leather outfit. "Shshshsh sssshhhh..." Cherry puckered lips drew close to his face, chasing Bruce back to the spine of the chair. "No need to be pick-y... you're just too--- _big_ for the suit. Jonny'll look better in it than you."

Transfixed on the close proximity, Bruce hadn't noticed the lithe figure had crawled into his lap, pinstriped gridelin thighs settling on either side of him. Physical protest failed him once the silencing touch slipped from his mouth and trailed down his chest, setting the flesh beneath on fire. His breathing constricted and goosebumps riddled his skin."Who- who **are** you?" he stammered. Gaze never leaving the painted imperfections.

Giggles met him in response and a giddy jumping rode his lap. "Who- who **am** I?!" He relished in the brunette's dumbstruck expression. "Oh Brucey, I'm hurt -really I am- well I'm, uh, the reason for this whole shin-dig! I'm the boss - the head honcho- the, ah, _grand _pooba - the genius of _Knives and Lin**t**_--- the insanely dashing gentleman that's signing **your **paycheck-" The bouncing paused mid-air which Bruce quietly thanked him for since the rocking hips didn't bode well for his macho bravado- and that smile leaned towards his ear. Hot chuckles tickled Bruce's cheek.

"**I'm**----_The Joker_," he breathed. The delivery of that name shot a white heat straight to Bruce's crotch. Instinctively his hands snaked around the narrow waist and cupped the firm ass resting on his knee caps.

The aforementioned moistened his lips despite himself, knowing full well the effect of hearing the wet smack beside one's ear. His muddy eyes noted with utter glee the half lidded stare off into space and slackened mouth below him. He couldn't be more pleasantly surprised that the larger man was as forthcoming as he was so soon. He _almost_ apologized for underestimating him.

**Almost.**

Legs holding strong, The Joker arched back -exposing his lean upper body wrapped in a pea soup vest, the three top buttons of his dress shirt undone revealing marble flesh, and pant front stretched tight over his lack of modesty- he picked a black jar amongst the scatter of make up on the vanity table; Bruce held on to the man's backside tighter as an excuse so as he would not fall. (Neither of the two complained.) His back regained posture effortlessly with maybe a small crack.

"What's that?"

The Joker glanced up from his work of unscrewing the cap. "Eye make up." He balanced the opened jar on his thigh to pull off his gloves, then tossed them to the side.

"But I don't wear that stuff," Bruce said absently. The prospect of wearing something as girly as eyeshadow reminded him of where he was and who was on top of him. His hands pulled away from the other man as if he were badly burned.

Admitting disappointment would have been an understatement. The clown wiggled, as if finding a more comfortable position, and couldn't find those needy hands anywhere near so he let out an aggravated sigh, "Don't knock it till you try it," and got to work. Two fingers coated in black traced his model's wincing eyes. "Will you relax?" He barked and jerked his hips.

"Sorry..." Bruce fought to keep his eyes staring straight ahead at the pouted lips dangerously in reach of his own. _"No, that's gross. I'm not like that."_ But the dead air between them accompanied by the increasingly more awkward, intimate position was becoming a bit too much for the _hetero_. He had an inkling that threats of a sexual harassment suit wouldn't faze this guy, nor did he entirely want to throw him off either. An easy million of questions flitted through his mind: Why did he hire him for one, since they had never met before; boring, filler ones about the show; then true curiosity about the man's name, why a clown, and how those scars. Did he do it himself or did someone else... So he'd figured he'd stay since he was so intrigued. Giselle and Kate Moss never fascinated him more, even when their clothes pooled at their feet.

"There. Done." Sooty, black fingers wiped excess off on Bruce's plain t-shirt. A bored expression on an eternally warped grin. Bruce wondered if his reclaimed professionalism put him in these bad graces; the shirt be damned.

The Joker did the last few smudges for good measure and leaned back to get a decent view of his artwork. He really knew how to slather it on; all the brunette needed was a pasty face and bloody smile to go with his own. The black clouded on top of perfectly toasted skin brought him back to the reality: The clown is a one of a kind, even though there are usually two Jokers in a deck. All those Calvin Klein ads he had poured over; the monster trapped in those cold eyes, a calculating darkness only he could appreciate and relate to in himself. Normally he wasn't the sighing type -sparingly using the regretful gesture since he hardly ever felt that way- but for right now that was all he could muster before every sentence to this masterpiece of a specimen.

"Welly, well, well..." He clapped his hands together and cracked his neck. "I better, uh, go check onnn, on my **scare**crow..." His tongue ran in a stutter over his lips like a bitter tang had settled there.

Bruce couldn't even begin to fathom the extent of the hold the habits of that defective mouth had on him. _"I'm __**not**__ gay." _But he had begun to make excuses. "Just my eyes?"

A blended black brow raised._ "Isn't this the same man who just denounced the wonders of make up?" _Greasy green swayed as he shook his head. "Nooo... that's all I, uh, en-visioned with the mask.

"Mask? He had to brush it aside. "So no work on my hair?"

"Nnoooooo... it goes under the mask." He saw the man about to ask some other question, so he tactfully added, "Not all of my time can be --wasted-- on you. I have other matters..." He shot a cursory glance over the brunette's head, in search of a scrawny, blue-eyed man with the lips of a top notch whore and then a dark corner to get cozy in. "Other matters that **need** my, ah, _personal _touch. Your new friend being one of them." He made to crawl off. At least the Scarecrow wanted to have some fun.

"Aw, fuck him," Bruce spat without a thought.

"That _**was**_ the plan..."

Just the thought of such a pompous, little bitch so full of himself being chosen over him, Bruce fucking Wayne, was unheard of from man or woman. He wouldn't have it but couldn't bring himself to pursue it.

"Suit up, Brucey." The Joker inched off his lap, purposefully lingering and coaxing just a dash of visible distress over his leaving._ "He really should wear paint more. I __**hate**__ plain."_ No restraints as of yet. _"Just stop me already. This isn't some moral debate."_

Nope. Nothing. He descended without a hitch. A reproachful grimace on his face. "I'd try to put, ah, the cowl on last." He had to get back to appreciating his chaos anyway. What time was the show supposed to start again?

"But I don't know how to put that thing on!" Bruce could easily decipher the clicks and snaps of the ensemble, yet the strained panic in his voice was sincere; an unwanted but undeniable magnetism towards the flawed freak, pushing and pulling at this sexuality. When the clown turned away to examine himself in the fractured mirror: His lipstick unfortunately still perfect-ish wilted to a frown and red film speckled across his near shattered reflection of a minuscule crime scene. The face responsible for the damage watched him: Apprehensive verbal beginnings and flickers of hot 'n cold thoughts on a well sculpted visage. He didn't know what to do, what was expected of him, what would all these people think...

Clicking against the roof of his mouth -palms planted flat atop the counter- he studied the internal struggle with the attention span of a four year-old. No one knew him for his patience. "Well I'm sure you can handle it. All it is is a _Bat_."

"A bat?" Bruce sputtered, looking again at the black material. It was the most outlandish in the line, because it didn't make sense, illogical to the line, and excruciatingly dark. It's lack of color compared to the other frocks make it the coup de grace[5] of the circus. Everything needs a hint of serious, and Bruce was perfect to bring the dark angel of his nightmares to life. The show had to have that gloomy buzz kill, and the pretty boy had that down pat.

"Yes, a bat." Malicious intent ready to rip out any tongue that dared to speak ill of his creative process.

"Well that's... that's something," Bruce eventually replied, slipping his arms out of his shirt sleeves and tugging it off. At least he wasn't going out as a zipper-faced masochist, but to be honest... bats frightened him. Ever since he had fallen in that well, he had been weary of the winged creatures. Did the clown know that?If he did, nothing about his current demeanor revealed any such hidden knowledge.

Slack-jawed and treating his lips like watermelon Jolly Ranchers, ink pupils contracted to analyze as well as memorize the rippling muscles and chiseled abs. The scratches to be trailed down that capital **T** back and the bite marks to ooze at that prominent collar bone made him drool. _"He can throw me around anytime." _The soft length resting against his inner thigh stirred and swelled with concentrated blood flow. His grip on the table's edge turned white knuckle. Maybe the Scarecrow could wait."Yesss, it it cer-tain-ly something..." A crooked smile sent shivers down Bruce's spine. Spinning on his heel, The Joker settled against the vanity table and held Bruce in a predator stare. One leg crossed over the other, hiking up tented purple. "So whadda ya say, Brucey..." He leaned forward slightly with a cheshire grin; a seductive edge to his slow burning voice. "Do you wanna be my Bat_man_?"

Fisting his rumpled shirt, conveniently hiding his awakened member, Bruce's teeth gritted and desperation twitched under his skin. No matter how obvious he was, his eyes wouldn't leave that bugle staring blankly at him. The fact that him being topless created such a strong positive reaction and a smug lack of shame hanging over the other man's head was the most simple and erotic sight he had ever encountered.

Doubt washed over the clown's tease. "Brucey?"

The brunette nodded like a well-oiled bobble head. Muscled arms shot forward, hands hooking into pinstripe pockets and yanking the lean body to him. Chapped lips smashed against cherry plump ones; teeth clicked and tongues danced; linked saliva mixing bold spiced rum and sweet cotton candy; eyes slipped shut, falling victim to the wiles of the other; hands roaming over rolling jaws and down straining necks; clothed chest forcing itself upon the bared one; The Joker returning to Bruce's lap.

Realizing the scars were deep enough to line the wet, hot cavern of the man's mouth, Bruce couldn't help but moan. A delicious sound to The Joker's ears as he reared his head back -gasping for air- and forcefully ground his hips into Bruce's erection. A sharp growl tore from Bruce's throat, bucking his hips to meet that wonderful friction and using his tongue to trace the curves and dips of the scars, relishing the chemical palate and sharing it with his partner. No one had ever done that before, and The Joker couldn't picture killing the man beneath any time soon.

"Sir- Mr. J? The show..." Schiff, minus a scarecrow but a new air of hysteria, hopped lightly on his toes beside the couple. His large, twitchy eyes diverted elsewhere.

To be interrupted right when things were starting to get good... He shot a death glare at his assistant, repelling him. Bruce, catching his breath and too intoxicated by the flesh rubbing up against him, wasn't as embarrassed by the intrusion as he thought he'd be, considering his strong hold around the other man's shoulders. He merely nodded at the news and moved to sit up straighter in his seat. That didn't go appreciated by the man on top."Fine," he huffed and pushed greasy strands from his eyes. Splotches of clean skin unearthed, slivers of dark scars against red and rubbed around pink.

Bruce cracked a grin at the white to pink ratio.

"What' so funny?" He was eyed suspiciously. The _so serious_ Bruce was capable of a smile? And a pretty one too?

It looked like a pink five o'clock shadow. The low murmur of a laugh rumbling past his lips. He shook his head, deciding not to say a word about it. The prospect of humiliating this man in front of an audience was too tempting to pass up. It only seemed fair.

Unsure of the model's thoughts but the make up smeared across his sun kissed face was compensating enough, the corners of his ruined mouth lifted. He was going to make sure it stayed: White smudges and scarlet lips did add something to "The Batman" he had in mind. _Once does want a hint of color._Eventually The Joker recovered from his straddling -leaving Bruce cold and flustered- and stretched, arousal still evident in the heart of his pants. All Bruce could do was blush at the sight and do whatever the scarred man told him to. "Get... get, uh, dressed. I'll be back."

"To do what?" Everything appeared in order as far as he could tell, and he didn't want to be left alone like this.

Shaking his head, incredulous, he patted down the brunette's crazed hair and pinched his cheek. _"What a cute boy..."_

"I have to go return some videotapes."[6] And with that, the Joker allowed himself to get lost in his crowd of circus freaks, making sure his vision had gained fruition without really having to do all the work.

Taking deep breaths to steady himself, Bruce ran his fingers through his hair -feeling the tingle of the clown's impassioned tugs- and slid off the chair. "You're working remember?" he scolded and stepped out of his jeans; his button and zipper sneakily undone. _"That man really knows what he wants."_

Still not fully _relaxed_, he tore into the outfit: Zipping sides and clicking chest plates into place. So it wasn't built for hot wax and _I've been a bad boy _spankings; it fit rather well actually. Twisting around in its snug torso and flexing his muscles under the glove like fit."I might as well be fighting crime in this," he chided, fidgeting with the cape.

He stomped into the boots and glanced in the mirror. Hours in the gym showed under tough kevlar, a glaring black figure, his face flushed further due to the unwanted face paint: A messy imitation of the man that had kissed it on him. His hand moved to wipe it away.

"**Leave it**," The Joker hissed, pushing away the offending hand and unconsciously lacing their fingers together. His arms cradled the upper black shell -holding it to his chest- and happily taking into account the brunette had managed to put the damn thing on correctly. "Here." The cowl dangled in his grasp.

Bruce noted that the man had only run off to reapply his three-tone mask. The pink shadow gone and the fresh coat of white under these lights hurt Bruce's eyes. He wondered if the clown face was a one shot quirk for tonight, a sort of the tables have turned Bozo as the ringmaster.

"I know. I'm gorgeous. We don't have much time. Put this on." The Joker scowled with a harsh roll of his eyes. He had always been keen to make others uncomfortable with the flaunting of his scars -causing others to distraction from their own means- yet he couldn't ignore how Bruce was infatuated with them -licked and sucked on them even- but he didn't like how the model seemed to like them **too** much. His absorbent stares inflaming an insecurity the off-kilter man had come to forget about.

Snapping out of the trance of that mutilation, Bruce mumbled an apology and took the offered etched disquietude and pointed ears. With a wrinkled expression -distaste towards his face being hidden- he smoothed back his hair and fitted the cowl on his head. He shimmied it down to a perfect fit on his skull -more of a helmet than masquerade mask- and then felt around for the clasp.

Heart thump thump thumping against his rib cage, The Joker batted away the searching hands and fumbled with the clasp himself. It would have gone easier if he had actually been paying attention to what he was doing, instead of his eyes glued to his nightmare's main character standing obediently before him. No one would understand the pull of the dark knight fighting him at every turn in his fantasy land, but perhaps some day his Bats -Bruce- would get it too.

_Seven years, after all..._

A touch unnerved by the insistent stare and plummet in conversation, Bruce gnawed on his swollen lip -reveling in the after taste of the mad man; that's right, man- and adjusted the cowl on his head. "So... how do I look?"

A sly grin on those fresh cherry lips. His arms wound around the armored waist. "Good enough to eat."

The pair settled their gazes on the other's reflection: A web of broken glass splitting their forms and being pieced back together through each other. A twisted mosaic.

_You __**complete **me. _

_There__ is __**always**__ two in a deck..._

Pale nimble fingers grazed over a black, cupped crotch. "My Bat-man," he sighed in the closest state of zen any cosmic force in the universe would allow him.

"Hey!" Bruce snapped, prying off those fingers curled in a vice around his erection. "Don't push your luck."

Yep, no **good** can come of this.

___________

[1] "Appy polly loggies" is slang for "Apologies" to all those of you who haven't read Anthony Burgess' _A Clockwork Orange _or Stanely Kubrick's screen adaptation.

[2]Charlie Chaplin was a silent film star in the 1920s; his most popular being known as, "The Tramp"

[3]Macello del Circo is Italian for "The Circus Slaughter"

[4]"Ridiculously Good looking" is a silly reference from my favorite modeling move, _Zoolander_

[5]Coup de grace (lacking the proper punctuation) means "the finishing stroke" in French

[6]"I have to return some video tapes" is, of course, is a popular line from _American Psycho_


End file.
